AKA That Hero Thing
by Taneva Rose
Summary: In which Jessica Jones stays with Kilgrave at the house and tries to trick the devil into saving the world.
1. Chapter 1

She brings him Chinese food bathed enough grease to qualify as an oil spill, and when she throws the white-boxes onto the table, wearing those awful ripped jeans, she looks like a homeless member of a lesbian biker gang taking up delivery as a side-job. But none of it matters. They'll iron out the details of her wardrobe over time. Plus, her surliness means that this is real. If she was all smiles, he'd be looking for the sniper again.

So when she summons the servants - just to needle him he knows - he offers only a half-barbed quip.

Like him, she always did have a place in heart for strays. One day he'll get her to admit that.

But not right now. Now it's only after they get through the song and dance of "are you trying to drug me "and "no, here let me prove it" that they really settle in. For her, that means slouching like a teenager and attacking her meal with a fork.

He regards her with a mix of horror and fascination. There are so many different nuances to this Jessica, the outfit, the grumpiness, the rage. He wonders how much of this rudeness is because of her misplaced anger at him, and how much is just her natural routine. Did she eat like this with her family too? He bites back a command to have her tell him.

"So," she says after she's shoveled the last forkful of fried rice into her mouth. (She's heartily declined any and all noodles). "If we do this, there are going to be rules."

"I think you've already put down more than a couple restrictions on me, Jessica." He taps his chopsticks against the side of his dish before tucking them under his cloth napkin. (Some concessions had to be made to decency.) "What are a few more."

"First rule. You let them go."

Alva and Laurent look up like startled puppies. It's sickening really, but he doesn't command them to gouge out their eyes. Yet. "And how can I be sure you'll stick around?"

"You can't," she says through gritted teeth, and he gets her subtext loud and clear. We both know that you can control me whenever you want, asshole. "That's part of the fun of this."

'If this is fun, Jessica, smile,' He wants to order. Her pain is etched in the dark bags under her eyes and skittish movements. His poor Jessica, so broken that she'd been convinced he was trying to get her to commit suicide. She's aged five years in the scant months of their separation. Really, he should've found her sooner.

"I'll give them three weeks severance."

"Good." She nods.

But they both know he could hold the whole world hostage if he wanted to. That in fact, he does. But if she's willing to pretend he won't, he's willing too.

Progress.

She barrels forward. "I decide when and where we take cases."

He holds up his hands. "Of course, fine." But then he leans in conspiratorially and adds, "Frankly, you'll be the one doing the moral guiding here, so I think it's better if you set the lessons anyway, hmm?" He purses his lips, raising his eyebrows.

When they used to dine in bed with croissants and freshly churned cream cheeses, this was a face that would always make her laugh. Once without even prompting. Now she just rolls her eyes. Humor is hard for her since he's left, he knows. It's as if all of his painstaking detailed work to bring her back to a happier time has only dredged up her ghosts. He heard her last night, tossing and turning, screaming her brother's name.

Silence falls over the dining room but for the scraping of Alva and Laurent's silverware. He regrets promising not to hurt them already.

"I would ask one thing of you," he says as neutrally as he can, careful not to let his fondness for her show. She can be vicious when she smells blood. And when it comes to her his heart is gushing.

"What?" she asks flatly, staring at her empty plate. Really anywhere but his face.

"One night a week of your time, non-heroing. A chance to help you break out of this fu—"

"No," she hisses. Then she snatches her plate off the table, along with the servant's.

"You don't have to bother with those. That's what sweet Alva and Laurent are for." He reaches for her wrist, but she dodges him before he even makes contact.

This time he flinches, her earlier accusation zinging through his skull.

It's called rape.

No. No it wasn't. His poor Jessica wouldn't know happiness if it bit her in her arse. Which it had once. He had. And she had moaned in pleasure.

She stops in the doorway to the living room. "Rule number two of heroism, Kilgrave. Don't be a prick."

"I thought you said that was rule number one."

"Clearly you didn't get it the first time," she shouts over her shoulder.


	2. Chapter 2

The dreams don't get better, but they do get more focused. She thinks she wakes up at 3am with her brother next to her in bed, sleeping. His warm, dry body presses up against her with all the trust of a small animal. She can even smell him, the bubble-gum shampoo Mom used to wash his hair. He never made it past puberty.

When she actually wakes up at 6am she buries her face in her too-small pillow to stop the scream. He hears it anyway of course.

Knock. Knock.

"Jessica," he asks in that whiny voice of his.

It seems ridiculous that a simple command from that could make her tear off her clothes like some kind of porn-star. And that just makes her hate herself more. "Go away."

"I heard a scream." He ignores her, of course. Because he wouldn't be fucking Kilgrave if he actually acknowledged another sentient human being's desires — even hers.

"I was remembering the first time I met you," she lies and doesn't feel an once of guilt. "Now fuck off."

She waits with the pillow clutched to her chest, until she hears his footsteps down the stairs. Only then does she allow herself to cry.

Trish. Fuck. She wants Trish.

But she will never bring Trish here.

If she did, she knew that one day, it'd be Trish she'd have dreams about sleeping next to her. Because that's what's happen when you love Jessica Jones. Sooner or later you end up dead and nothing but the star of her nightmares.


	3. Chapter 3

Their first act as a "daring do" isn't very daring. A policeman he commanded to alert them of all local news texts Jessica with a memo about a cat up a tree, and she decides to test him by making him fetch it down. Driving over the three blocks to the crime scene in his Aston Martin eases the indignity only slightly. As does Jessica ribbing him about how James Bond is a spy not a superhero. At least she recognizes his suaveness.

She tries to keep as much distance between them as possible, but the car is too cramped, and once her elbow actually grazes his accidentally. He can't help but give her a knowing look at that. From the way her mouth scrunches she does her best not to punch him. Or herself. Sometimes its hard to untangle her hatred of him from her hatred of herself.

When they get to the oak tree the cat has absconded to, he starts to command a small crew of suburbanites to build a human pyramid to go and fetch it. She looks on with crossed arms for about thirty seconds before she springs up and grabs it herself. The cat doesn't much like her though. It swipes at her with its claws, before diving gracefully into Kilgraves arms.

He almost throws it to the ground — it's getting some its long white hairs on his black cashmere sweater — but he can see from her smirk that that's what she expects him to do. So instead he winces and pets it, plastering on a broad smile. "What do you think we should call it? How about…" he searches around, "Carabas."

"Carrabas? Like the restaurant chain?"

"Jesus. No. Like the fairy-tale Puss in Boots. The imaginary nobleman the cat makes up."

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

"To con people? For God's sakes, I didn't even having a loving mummy and daddy to read me night-time stories and even I know that."

"It's not our cat." Jessica frowns. "We have to find it's owner."

Kilgrave pets its head and it purrs. "I think it likes me." He squirms until he realizes what this means and shoots Jessica pointed glance. See, I don't have to use my power for everything.

But then the owner emerges from the tragically ramshackle ranch, a pear-shaped woman with a dress that looks like it's made half out of cat-hair. "Oats!"

She trundles toward them, arms outstretched like he stole her baby. He cradles the cat away from her, and it hisses. As its back curls upward, Kilgrave notices that there are far more bones visible than there should be on its mangy body. And hissing, he thinks, is not the reaction that a cat should have to its owner.

 _Act how?_

 _Suicide?_

 _Is that why you've been torturing me?_

He holds the cat closer to his suit, hairs be damned. It does remind him of her. Pale as a star, and just as remote and unfriendly. Clearly more than a little tortured. Although unlike Jessica, that cat isn't deluded about the true source of its pain. He had fed Jessica.

"This is not your cat," he says firmly to the woman.

"What are you doing?" Jessica asks.

Fine. "You," he points at the woman. "Tell me how often did you feed your animal."

"When I remembered," she said blankly. "Now—"

"Ah, ah, ah. How often?"

"He can hunt for himself," the woman says bitterly, hands still outstretched like a kid begging for a toy.

"No," Kilgrave said sternly. "He can't. That's why he's a pet. And he's not your pet anymore."

The woman shakes her head. "I'm sorry what was I saying…"

"No, now leave." He shoes her away with a toss of his hand, before focusing back on the cat. Oates seems like the wrong name for a majestic creature. It's eyes are slits of yellow, angry fire, but not for him. It purrs, and he can feel the sound vibrate underneath his hand. He wonders how long until he will feel her underneath him purring again.

This animal substitute isn't quite the same. But it is rather soft.

"You can't just take someone's cat," Jessica says, although she sounds more sour than murderous, so he knows she's not actually upset with him.

He smiles cheekily. "Well bully for you, because I just did. Now. What should we name it. Maybe it could be our mascot." He played with the creatures little paws, waving them back and forth at Jessica trying to get her to smile.

"Shit," she swears underneath her. "You really are determined to be a super-villain."

"What?"

"White cat, crazy car, stealing people's pets…" she shakes her head.

"Please don't play dumb with me, Jessica. We both know this cat is not properly taken care of."

"Like you'll give it a better home."

He jostles the cat to his other shoulder and bridges the distance between them. She looks at him as if he's holding a bomb. "I'm thinking His Sir Carabas, unless you have a better idea?"

Once she names it, it will be something that's theirs. Not his, not hers. Theirs. He know its a subtle bit of trickery, but she's stolen all of his other methods from him. He has to resort to these pedestrian tactics. Its embarrassing really. See what I do for you, my love.

"Holy fuck. Fine." Her nose wrinkles. "Call it Murdercorpse."


	4. Chapter 4

It's the cat that does it. The way he cradles it. The way he smiles at it. How his long fingers trail through its hair so gently, but his eyes never leave hers. They're a paralyzing mixture of reptilian coldness and a new, hesitant thing. Yearning, he called it at the police station. She refuses to call it anything. If she has to acknowledge its existence, she will slit her throat with the jagged edge of a broken wine bottle.

So, in an effort to be immune to whatever the fuck he is, she spits out her sarcasm, ties her sneakers tight enough to make her toes hurt and tells herself the cat really was in trouble. If, no, when he fucks up and forgets about the animal or ever tries to hurt it, she'll take it to a real shelter. She keeps waiting for him to torture it or throw it out a window, but he keeps the fucking thing on his lap the entire drive home. Then he carries it in his arms, not biting out a single, peevish command even when it gets cat hair all over his sweater.

He does not get to do this. He does not get to pretend that he's different.

She finds herself saying no to dinner and rushing up her bedroom. As she presses her back against the door, she practices breathing again. In and out. Then she practices not vomiting. Once she gets that down she decides to complicate things by fishing out a stolen half-bottle of Pinot Noir from her sock drawer. He had spent a lot of time talking about where it's from (its terroir), but she really only cares about where it's going, (down her throat), and where it will take her (away from him.)

She swigs it in a single gulp.

See, superpowers.

Then she tucks herself in and forces herself to go to sleep, but by the time the nightmares start, she really wish she hadn't.

They're about him. Unlike her other dreams she knows it's not real as it's happening, which is better. But she also knows that this isn't so much a dream as a memory, which is worse.

She's naked, like he liked to keep her, tangled up in sheets with a high enough thread-count to feel invisible. Par the course for Florence, the windows are open and screenless, letting a cool breeze murmur through the curtains, even though the red brick streets below are like an oven slowly roasting the hordes of tourists to a crisp. In the distance the silver dome of the Duomo rises up into a cloudless sky.

He hasn't commanded her do anything but lie still while he arranges lunch. Although, he's been very specific about how. Turn your cheek here, let your dark hair lie there, and smile, Jessica. Smile, like you've got a secret only I know. She obeys perfectly. Her life is a movie on pause, while he micromanages the poor chef pressed into preparing todays pasta.

When he finishes, he brings two plates to bed, humming with pride. "Look what I made us. Sit up, now. Doesn't it looks delicious?"

It does. Shaved pecorino dusts the Tagliatelle and morsels of dark wild-boar meat nestle in the curves of the noodles. But Jessica's not hungry, and when she doesn't pick up her fork, he feeds her himself, twirling the pasta around the fork with delight.

After he commands her to swallow he asks "What did you think of the meal, Jessica?"

"I ate it," she says.

"Yes, I know that. I made sure of that. But what did you think?"

She opens her mouth, but has nothing to say. It's harder and harder to form opinions when she never gets to act on them anymore. Easier just to let herself be a passenger in her own body. It's not until his finger catches the tear rolling down her cheek that she realizes she's crying.

"Oh, Jessica," he hemms and haws. He takes the plates away from both of them and puts them on the side-table. "You know how I feel about these displays. But come here, let me hold you. I'll make you feel better."

He'll make you feel better.

A cloying emptiness crawls through her limbs, leaving her floaty as the husk of a falling leaf. But even that sensation isn't resistance, because he told her to feel better, and the closest she can get to feeling better with him is feeling nothing at all.

Once she goes limp he fucks her. Soft and slow. She's always hated "making love", with anyone, but with him it's fucking torture. But he likes treating her as if she's breakable. Which at this point is only a little wrong, when he finishes and lies back against the bed, sighing in content, she stays where he left her. Broken. Nothing.

He doesn't notice. If he did he wouldn't care. She thinks it's fitting that his name is Kilgrave, because what he's doing to her isn't so much rape as murder. So when he commands her to curl up in a ball and let him press his back up against hers and whisper term after term of endearment, she imagines murdering him back. Her favorite scenario is yanking out his tongue and stuffing it down his throat until he chokes.

She doesn't think of Trish in moments like these, she saves those for when he's left her alone. Jessica knows what would happen if he ever asked her what she was thinking about and she told him Trish.

It does not end with Trish alive.

So her hatred is the only thing she's got to hold onto. Well, the only good, clean thing. There are other things. Darker hopes. Most days she's gotten good at not thinking about them.

"I love you, Jessica Jones," he murmurs on her neck. "Now go to sleep." He's more than halfway there himself.

"Liar," she hisses, the words mumbled by her numb, drowsy lips. "You fucking dirty cunt of a liar."

He doesn't roll over or wake up. So she keeps going. She can't stop. Today is not going to be one of the most days. There's this other thing burning in her chest, bubbling away the numbness until her whole body is raw and aching. It doesn't come often, but when it does it hurts.

Oh God, it hurts so much.

"You don't love me," she whispers. "You'd rather kill every part of what makes me who I am than even acknowledge my existence as anything other than a mirror for your narcissistic pathetic self." Her body feels closed and small and her throat is no exception. The words barely escape her wind-pipe, and thousands more stay clogged in her brain.

He doesn't love you, because no one can. No one should. He'll never really see you. He'll never understand what he's done. He'll never say he's sorry. He'll never let you go. He'll never love anyone. He'll never love you.

And then the coupe de fucking grace as he would say, the truth festering, deep, deep below the numbness and the rage and the loss.

You wish he could.

When she wakes up, she doesn't scream. She finds her phone with shaking fingers and she dials the only number left she knows by heart. It rings once.

"Jessica?"

Trish's voice is everything. Jessica collapses back in her bed and presses her phone so hard against her ear it's going to leave a red mark.

"Jessica, are you there?"

Please tell me I'm okay, Trish.

"Talk to me, Jessica," Worry, anger, annoyance and all the mundane, real feelings that friends have color Trish's familiar plea. Jessica feels like a thief, taking them from Trish, but at this point she's pretty sure that if she doesn't she will kill herself. And maybe that justifies the risk.

"Trish," she breathes.

"Jess. What's going on?"

"I'm still with him."

"You need to come see me," Trish says firmly.

"I need to do a lot of shit." Simple things are hard and breathing is one them, but after a beat Jessica manages. "Simpson was right, I should kill him. I know I should. I should forget Hope and this fucking superhero bullshit. Sometimes people can't be saved."

"We'll figure out a way to get Hope out."

I'm not just talking about her. "We will," Jessica agrees instead.

She stares up at the old Nirvana poster, the smilie face with the eyes x-ed out.

"I'll make him pay for everything he's done one way or another. You-" Jessica begins hurriedly and keeps on going even though she feels embarrassed for some reason, "you don't have to be involved in this anymore Trish. Catching him and tracking him down is one thing. Having him actually be in my life, that's fucked up shit you didn't sign up for."

Three seconds of silence later, and Jessica's sure Trish has finally hung up. It's a relief for Trish to abandon her, actually. It's what she's been expecting since the moment Trish first hugged her in the bathroom after she told off her mother for the first time. Beautiful, tv-star Trish is not supposed to be friends with an grungy asshole like her.

"I love you, Jessica," Trish says simply. "I've signed up for all of it."

"It's not fair to you, to deal with this —"

"I don't care," Trish says.

Jessica gives a strangled laugh and actually smiles. But the laugh doesn't last long. "What should I do?"

"Run away with me on the network jet to Guam."

Jessica rephrases. "What can I do? "

"Keep calling me," Trish says calmly. "Just do that, okay?"

This time Jessica's the one that lets the silence hang. Her finger slides over the screen to the end-call button, but she doesn't press it. Instead she wipes away at her dry, tired eyes and says the closest she can come to 'I love you' right now, "O-okay."


	5. Chapter 5

She never gets old Jessica Jones. Everything about her should be intolerable, her snark, her wardrobe, her consistent lack of gratitude, even her footfalls are heavy as she stomps down the stairs. She walks like she's trying to attack the world with her feet. But he knows who she's really pissed off at. He's not delusional. His sodding heart, well, that's another story.

Lounging on the couch with his feet thrown on the coffee table, he watches her out of the edge of his eye.

She stops on the bottom step, adjusting the same leather jacket she's worn for the past three days. Chances are good she slept in it too. She can't tell he's looking, because her shoulders are too loose and there is certain softness in her face she'd never let him see. With him she is only high contrast and sharp edges, but he know she's got shades, complications. Unlike Patsy, Jessica wasn't born a hero, she's trying of course, trying so hard, there's a tension that never leaves her long limbs, but she's not quite there yet.

That's what makes her beautiful.

And very, very dangerous.

She clears her throat and takes the final step down.

He turns and smiles politely. "Jessica, you're up, and before 11, good work. Shall I order us some breakfast?"

"I'm fine."

He shakes his head and pulls down his feet, readying to stand. "You need calories if we're going to be hero-ing today." And fresh clothes. But he bites back that last bit.

"We're not doing that today," she says, cheery as a morgue.

"Oh, and what's on the agenda then? Not more moping around here, I hope?" He flips the channel to the news, hoping for some inspirational murder or hostage situation to rear its head again. She doesn't join him on the couch. Distance it is.

She's unusually still, ratty gloved hands at her side. Calm, even. "You need to confess to the murder of Hope Schlottman's parents."

His finger slips onto the power-button, pressing it and accidentally turning the TV off. "Not sure I quite caught that."

"You heard me the first time."

He sighs, placing the remote gently on the coffee-table, taking his time to turn to stand and face her. An unfamiliar metallic tang itches on his tongue. Sometimes he forgets what fear feels like, but Jessica always helps him remember. Thankfully, Hank lurks in the dining room beyond. He should be able to slow her down at least. And if not there are other ways.

He steps closer to her. It's always like this with Jessica, if he approaches in small enough increments maybe she won't notice.

She crosses her arms over her chest, looking totally unconcerned. Almost numb.

"I noticed last night a half-bottle of my — excuse me our — pinot noir has gone missing. How much have you had today already?" he asks carefully.

"Not enough."

"Right, well then. If it's not alcoholic delusions, I'm curious what makes you think I'd abandon you just for the luxury of living out the rest of my life in a cell?" He pretends to wander just a little bit to the left, as if he's just pacing to think, instead of circling inward.

She doesn't flinch. Not an apology or God forbid a smile, but for now, he'll take not flinching. She does glance upward though, her eyes catching on one of the many family portraits lining the stairwell. Little Phillip giving her inspiration no doubt. "You say you love me, that you want to be better. This would be proof."

Just to hear her say the word love is a shock to his senses. His smirk falls, and something in his chest twists, aches. Oh, Jessica. You clever, dangerous girl.

"Proof. I've made you this house, saved you at the police-station, tried to re-weave the very fabric of my moral fiber." One more step, and suddenly they're the closest they've been since the police station. Then she looked like she was about to throw up, now she looks like she already has, all hollow and trembling.

He doesn't want her like this. He wants the Jessica he met all those nights ago, who tossed around the thugs like juggling balls. Or the sweet and open Jessica who roamed Vatican City with him, who screwed him the pews at St. Peter's. Or even the Jessica in that ghastly hoodie, waving her hands above her head screaming, "Hey, Shit Head."

But this Jessica, all fear and self-loathing? It's his least favorite version. He takes it anyway.

"I love you, Jessie," he repeats, serious, low. His fingers brush over her soft cheek. "But we both know that I'm not the kind of man to ever give up on you. Let alone by doing something as foolish as confessing to murder."

For one blessed moment she lets him feel her, her eyes closed, dark lashes like black daggers against her skin. There's almost a hint of relief in the line of her mouth. Or disappointment. Either way it's enough to give him hope. Then her hands wrap around his neck.

"You never fucking listen to me, do you?"

Slam.

She pins him to the wall in a graceful throw so hard there's a lag between the impact and the radiations of pain pulsing in his spine. "What are - "

"I told you," she rasps, "not to touch me or call me that." Her hand slides down from his neck to his shoulder and the other pulls at his collar. There's a sick joy in her eyes that may as well be a reflection of his own when he commands some nothing to slit their own throat. His poor darling girl. Confused. So determined to be unhappy she gains pleasure in hurting the only man who wants to end her misery.

"Jessica."

A shadow looms in the door behind her. Hank. He shakes his head.

This wins him no points from Jessica, she just hauls him up higher. "You are a murderer and a rapist. You raped me."

The word hits him with less force the second time. He knows better than to tell her its not true. There's no point.

"I—" he gasps, choked by her hold, "went about things the wrong way in the past. It's clear you feel hurt in a way I never intended. But now with your guidance, I'll improve. Without it though..."

"My guidance?" She shakes her head brutally. "Fuck you to pin this on me, innocent people were — "

"Were harmed, yes, yes, I know. But that's why I'm here," he continues on. "Doing this hero thing. I'm trying to change, aren't I?"

Her hand falls on his shoulder, pleasant for a moment, until she starts to pull.

"Boody hell!" he cries.

"Do it," she hisses. "Aren't you going to tell Hank to kill me, or to kill himself?"

"And ruin this delicious foreplay?" He winces, baring his teeth more than smiling. It feels like she's dislocating his shoulder, but he can't find it in himself to care. Not when she's touching him of her own free will.

She blanches, but doesn't let him go. "I'll never choose you. The best you can ever hope for is me never thinking of you again while you rot away in priso."

"And the hero thing?"

"You don't just want the hero thing. You want more. And when you find out you'll never get it, you'll kill me or whoever else is convenient. This is me saving time."

God, he loves how well she knows him. How well she sees him. Although it does make things inconvenient. "As much as I admire your directness, Jessica. I think you're underestimating my patience."

She twists his shoulder not just away from his joint, but back.

"Ah, bloody—" He grits his jaw to stop himself from screaming. He won't be weak in front of her. Not more than he already has been.

Jessica eyes are dull with grim satisfaction. "What's it going to be?"

"Death then, I suppose." He inhales a long, smooth breath, trying to keep from trembling. What his little Jessie hasn't counted on is that he knows her just as well as she knows him. He knows this attack is just a ploy. She'll never kill him. Not if he keeps faith in heroic nature. If he lets her pretend. "Although we both know how little your conscience needs another life pressing down on it."

"And what's to say I just won't inject you and kidnap you again?"

The blood roaring in his ears is so loud, he can barely hear himself, "You haven't left the house without me. You don't have any needles, and Hank's been ordered to kill you and then himself if you try to take me from the premises," Kilgrave lies smoothly. "Right, Hank?"

"Right," Hank grunts.

Good man. He'd really underestimated how much loyalty money alone could buy.

"And hurting you, how about that?" Every word she utters stinks of booze, although her attacks are too precise for her to be drunk. This is Jessica in 100% control. It's undeniably sexy.

"Is that what a hero would do, Jessica? Beat up the villain after he surrenders? For no reason?" Her hand just rests on his shoulder, not pulling any further. He'd swear he can feel her fingertips through his clothes and just that is enough to make him half-hard. He fights it. If she sees how much this is turning him on, she might actually kill him.

"You haven't surrendered," she hisses.

He smiles sadly, glad that his arms are pinned behind his back, knowing if they weren't he'd certainly gently tilt her face back to meet his. "No, I suppose I haven't. I—"

But before he can get out another declaration she drops him, sending him plummeting to the floor with a smash almost as violent as the one that hurtled him up against the wall. Rubbing his shoulder to, he looks about, half expecting an intruder as the explanation for his freedom. But no, just his Jessica. She's even more whimsical than he is. In a sour sort of way.

She scowls down at him, hands on her hips. All that's missing is the costume and the cape waving behind her while she monologues about the importance of justice.

"You seem to know what a hero should do well enough on your own, Kilgrave." She prowls over to the door, thinking she's leaving.

"Are you really ready to gamble that I will?" he shouts after her. "Let's not forget that it's not just sweet little nobodies I can control. Patsy —"

"Shut up." She grips the frame of the door so hard the wood starts to split. And after all the work he did on this house! But at least she doesn't turn the knob. He has her. He always had. Always will. She just needs times to come to term with it on her own.

"Why don't you come back inside for a while, Jessica? Take a bath. Read a book. Then when you're ready we can sit down and discuss how to have Hope released, and our plan of attack for our next feat of heroism."

"Fuck you," she spits. His shoulder aches, burns, but the rest of him feels a very real fear in the pit of his gut. It's surprisingly strong. Stronger even than when she first threw him against the wall. She can't leave. She can't. If he has to live alone in this world without her, without someone fucking interesting and whole... Well, he's never really tried to make the world suffer before. His cruelty has been incidental. If she leaves him, he's almost certain it will become his purpose.

He's not a monster. He doesn't want that.

"Please, Jessica."

Then, finally, for God's sake finally, she lets go of the doorframe. It wheezes. Without another word she stomps back up the staircase. Her only reply a few beats later is the slamming of her bedroom door.


End file.
